The List
by Jay Nice
Summary: They have an agreement: Sherlock gives him the list, and Mycroft doesn't meddle—even if he wants nothing more than to see his brother stop suffering. Pre-series.


"The list, Sherlock."

He held out his slender hand where he knew his brother's groggy eyes could make it out. Slowly, the heap of a body that was sprawled listlessly across the sitting room stuck one bony hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a crumpled strip of paper. Mycroft quickly snatched the paper from his brother's hands and started reading.

He sighed in relief. Nothing fatal, thank the heavens. Sherlock would be okay with time.

"Mmm…M-Mycroft?" Sherlock slurred, looking up towards his brother now. His gaunt face was a mess of tears he didn't know he'd shed and sweat pouring through every pore of his body. His pupils were dilated and eyes red-rimmed. His hair was pasted to his forehead from perspiration and there were countless track marks scattered along his left arm. The abuse was taking a toll on his body. Two empty syringes and a prescription pill bottle laid by his feet.

The elder Holmes took the liberty to wipe some tears from the younger's face. "Brother mine, what am I to do with you?" he murmured, mostly to himself than to the other party in the room.

Sherlock made a guttural moaning sound, and Mycroft's hand gravitated up to his brother's hairline, where he began massaging his head. The lights were giving Sherlock a headache, that much was apparent.

"Mmm, Mycroft…" Sherlock groaned. "They're here… I-I _see_ th'm."

"You see whom, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked patiently, even though he knew he wouldn't be able to get a coherent answer. Nevertheless, any means of getting his brother to attempt to speak in moments like these were beneficial.

"Th'm… Staring at _meee_ … Go 'way, don' wanna see the…" His voice, which had been progressively growing higher in pitch, suddenly fell away, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. God _knows_ what Sherlock was seeing.

A seventeen-year-old genius with his whole life ahead of him should not have to suffer through cocaine/morphine-induced delusions. During his few and far in between moments of sobriety, Sherlock claimed that he craved the drugs in order to stimulate his mind in a boring world. Mycroft could understand this issue, however his position in the British government he'd acquired at younger than Sherlock's age had helped to challenge his mind. If only Sherlock could find the same solace, in order to get him off the drugs.

"You're okay, Sherlock," Mycroft murmured. He didn't know if his brother could hear him, or if his ministrations made any impact on the given situation, but he could always try. "I'm here for you. I'm not leaving you."

One of Sherlock's hands latched onto the tail of his elder brother's coat. Mycroft smiled sadly, it being bittersweet to witness his brother seeking him out in time of need, even if that time of need was caused by his own destructive recreational drug use.

He lost track of time, which was unusual for him. Usually his ears were keen to the ticking of the clock, subconsciously keeping track of the elapsed time. However, he was focused on other noises in the room this time, most notable being Sherlock's incoherent ramblings as he drifted in and out of consciousness. They both sat together on the floor for what must've been hours. Finally, once supper time was nearing, Sherlock shifted his position sharply. He lifted his head, eyes clearer than they'd been in hours. "Mycroft?" he asked.

"I'm here," Mycroft replied dutifully, gauging his brother, who was squinting around the room with a look of confusion. "How is it?"

Sherlock scowled. "Headache," he grunted. "And the after-effects have slowed my cognitive thinking."

Mycroft bit his tongue to keep himself from reprimanding his brother. It had been their agreement that Mycroft wouldn't interfere or try to prevent Sherlock's habits if Sherlock gave him the lists. Always the lists. "You're lucky Mummy and Daddy aren't home this time, Sherlock," he said instead. "I may tolerate your horrid addiction, but they do not."

"I'm not an addict. I'm a controlled user," Sherlock muttered forlornly, pinching the bridge of his nose and scrunching his eyebrows. "How long?"

"Nearly five hours," Mycroft estimated, based on the progression of the sun.

"Hmm." Sherlock pulled himself into a full sitting position. "I suppose I should wait before the next dosage."

"At least two days, if you wish for your body to recover from this round," Mycroft suggested.

"Yes I know, I'm not an idiot," the younger Holmes growled. He pressed his hands to his temples and attempted standing, a belligerent mask veiling and prior weakness he may have conveyed.

Mycroft watched him carefully. Sherlock didn't know how much it pained him to see his brother like that, a listless lump mumbling on the floor. Sometimes he abhorred their agreement. He wished more than anything for Sherlock to get clean, but the agreement forbade him from taking action. All he could do was watch Sherlock suffer.

With a frown, Mycroft stuffed the list into his coat pocket. It was the twenty-fourth list so far, and the worst so far. They'd been getting worse recently, he noted. It was only a matter of time before an overdose occurred…

 _Oh Sherlock,_ Mycroft thought wearily, _what are you doing?_

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